


hold

by frausorge



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, San Jose Sharks, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frausorge/pseuds/frausorge
Summary: Brenden got used to having Martin Jones around.
Relationships: Brenden Dillon/Martin Jones
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20
Collections: Pucking Rare - A Hockey Rarepair Challenge





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [yousee_saros (all_ivvant)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_ivvant/pseuds/yousee_saros) in the [PuckingRare2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2020) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Brenden Dillon/Martin Jones
> 
> A magical realism fic with these two!! Jonesy could be a witch or smth. He’s weird enough for it.
> 
> Many thanks to B for looking this over and weeping about these boys with me!

Brenden got used to having Martin Jones around, those first weeks Joner stayed with him after arriving in San Jose. He would have been happy to have Joner stay even longer, and he's even more glad than he expected when Joner gets a condo in the same building so they can still hang out and carpool and everything together.

Brenden's kind of surprised when he goes over to see about ordering some food for dinner, about a month after the move, and gets no response. He knows Joner's home because he'd said he was just going to take care of some things around his own place on their off day.

Martin still doesn't answer after multiple knocks and texts, so Brenden feels totally justified using the key Martin gave him—"so you can drag me to practice if I sleep through my alarms," Martin had said sheepishly—to let himself in. The living room is super dim with all the blinds closed, but when Brenden's eyes adjust he sees that Martin is there after all. Sort of. Martin is stretched out flat on his back on the floor next to the coffee table with an assortment of things laid out around him—two candles, a gauzy orange scarf, a pair of pink plastic sunglasses, three or four water bottles, and what looks like a piece of soap in the shape of a seashell. Martin's face is very still, and Brenden can hardly tell if he's breathing. His eyes are closed. There's light leaking out from underneath his lashes.

Martin's mouth opens, and his voice says, "I'll be right there."

"Ok!" Brenden says. It comes out in kind of a squeak, but he's not sure Martin even heard him, so maybe that doesn't really matter. He takes the few steps over to the couch and lets himself drop down onto it.

Brenden's not sure how long he sits there staring at Martin's pale face before Martin's chest heaves up in a sigh and his eyes open. Brenden's own breath catches then too.

"Hey," he says.

Martin turns his head to look at Brenden. "Hey," he says, pushing himself up on one elbow. "Give me a minute, I just gotta put this stuff away."

"Sure," Brenden says.

When Martin comes back, he tosses Brenden a water bottle, cracks open the one he kept for himself, and sits down a careful distance away. "So," he says, "you have questions."

"Yeah," Brenden says. "Yeah, like, uh, what the fuck was that?"

"I was just doing something for my sister. Protection for her trip."

"Protection."

Martin nods. Brenden waits, but Martin doesn't give him anything else. Part of Brenden's brain just wants to keep shrieking, but he makes an executive decision to move on. "And all that stuff you had around you?"

"It's—" Martin grimaces. "They're—tools, kind of, or really, more like anchors. Touchpoints? You know, something to focus your intentions."

Brenden does not know. He looks at the water bottle in his hand. "Is this one of the ones you were just using?"

"Yeah," Martin says, "but don't worry, I'm all done with it." He takes a long drink from his own bottle to prove his point. 

"So, what, you're saying all I have to do is lie on the floor with my favorite stuff and I can make shit happen?"

"You? No." 

"Am I not special enough?"

Martin cracks a smile at that. "Oh no, it'll come if you call it. You just won't know what to do with it."

"Well, can you explain it to me?"

"Not really?" Martin says. "It's something you kind of have to feel."

"And you do?"

"Since I was a kid. Yeah."

"Huh," Brenden says. 

His head is still spinning, but he can't seem to formulate another question. Martin watches him silently and then, when Brenden fails to come up with anything else, reaches out and claps him on the shoulder.

"Did you eat yet?" 

"No," Brenden says. "That's why I came over, actually."

"Well, let's get something then."

Brenden feels a little calmer with the coffee table full of takeout boxes and his belly full of rice. He puts his chopsticks down and takes another long drink of water, turning to look at Martin. Martin's still eating, but he glances over when he notices Brenden watching him.

"So, uh," Brenden says. "When you do stuff like this... what kind of stuff do you do?"

Martin shrugs, his mouth full. "Protection, mostly," he says after he's swallowed. "Keeping something whole, or warding things off. Sometimes, helping things grow."

"Have you ever used it for hockey?" Brenden asks.

Martin snorts. "For games? Nah. Where's the fun in that?"

Brenden stops to think about the way Martin phrased that. "Ok, but—for something else hockey-related?"

Martin's face falls, and his gaze slides off to the side. Brenden raises his eyebrows and waits.

"Joner?" he says.

"I tried to stay in LA," Martin confesses, low. 

"And that didn't work."

"Contracts are hard. There's a lot of intention in them already, and the, the... the power respects that. You can pull on one, and maybe bend it a little, but it's almost impossible to stop it." Martin sighs. "I thought if I drew on the Cup, it might give me enough strength. But, well."

"Well, fuck," Brenden says, stung more than he expected. "Sorry you had to land here?"

"Don't be mad," Martin says. "I just, you know, it was my team—my boys. I just wanted to keep that going. You know?"

Brenden nods reluctantly.

"But it was dumb of me to think I could hold onto it once there was a trade plan."

"So here you are.

Martin looks a little wry. "Here I am. And you know, it's growing on me. I can see it's a good group of guys." 

"For sure," Brenden says.

Brenden watches Martin closely, especially when they head to LA, but he doesn't walk in on anything like what he saw again. Martin does seem to be settling in more and more and gelling with their teammates. So really, there's no reason for Brenden to feel anxious about Martin not being happy to be in San Jose.

Martin notices Brenden looking and raises one eyebrow. Brenden gives him a flustered nod back.


	2. 2

Brenden loses his temper in DC and earns himself his first ever suspension. At least it happens at the end of the road trip; they fly directly back to California, and it feels like a relief to be at home until Brenden closes his door and finds himself alone in his place. 

It doesn't help that they have two more days off before the game he's going to have to sit out. Brenden didn't need Pete to remind him how thin their D already is with multiple injuries, but Pete lets him hear it anyway, and Brenden can't help but keep replaying that whenever he's on his own. By Wednesday night, Brenden's pacing a figure eight around his living room and kitchen that echoes the loop of frustration in his head.

He starts picking up random shit and putting it back down again. He has a vague idea of tidying the living room, but after gathering up some crumpled receipts from the trip, the stern letter from DoPS, and a hoodie Martin left on Brenden's couch, he doesn't head for his office to put the papers away. Instead, his eye falls on a candle in a glass jar that his mom gave him. On a whim, he picks that up too, detours to the kitchen to fetch his box of matches, and then goes to sit in the middle of the living room floor. 

The carpet is a little scratchy, but he ignores that. He lays everything out in a semicircle, lights the candle, and then lies down flat.

Nothing much happens, not that Brenden expected it to. He stares at the blank ceiling overhead. It feels kind of nice to have the floor pressed firmly along his spine. He lets his eyes fall shut.

His chest feels a little warm. He wiggles his fingers, and the warmth starts moving, out along his arms and down to his fingertips. Some of it seeps out there, but the rest keeps returning, circling through him in a rising rush.

He opens his eyes and it's like looking through a prism, the light refracting and surrounding everything with color. The wave is still building in him, threatening to to crash over his head.

"Hey," he hears distantly. "Hey, Dilly, you with me?" He turns his head toward the sound. It's Martin, crouched down next to him on the floor. Brenden smiles at Martin's face. "Dilly—Brenden, what are you doing? You're not ready for this."

Brenden blinks. "Martin," he tries to say. His voice comes out sounding oddly autotuned.

Martin takes both of Brenden's hands in his. "Here," he says, "give it to me."

Brenden can feel some of the energy running across from his fingers to Martin's, but it's not going fast enough. The rest is still rolling, spiraling, pushing him higher, forward, upward. He surges up to Martin's concerned face and kisses him.

That makes a real difference. Brenden can feel the rush washing out of him, pouring into Martin. It streams through and through him, on and on, and then suddenly he feels the last of it going. For a moment a glittering darkness covers him in its wake. Then that too recedes, and he's just left there with his lips pressed to Martin's.

Martin squeezes Brenden's hands to signal he's about to let go. Brenden draws back, letting his fingers uncurl. His head is pounding.

Martin gets to his feet a little awkwardly and heads across the room to the balcony. Brenden sees him press his palms down onto the soil in the pot that holds the little lemon tree. He can't see exactly what happens then, but the tree definitely looks taller after Martin turns away.

"Well," Martin says when he comes back, standing in front of the couch. "Maybe next time listen when I tell you you can't handle it."

"Right," Brenden says. "Sorry."

They look at each other in silence for a minute.

"Anyway," Martin says briskly, "you've got to be starving. What do you want to get for dinner?" He starts heading toward the kitchen. 

Brenden lurches to his feet and stretches out his hand to grab Martin's shoulder. Martin turns back, eyebrows raised, and Brenden kisses him again.

It feels different with nothing else pushing at them, just the two of them pressing quietly together. Martin brings a hand up to Brenden's jaw, and Brenden shivers at the touch.

"What was that for? You're not still, like, under the influence, are you?" Martin says when he's pushed Brenden gently back.

Brenden shakes his head. "I'm just into you."

"Oh," Martin says, and his eyes go soft. "All right, then." He leans in again.

"What were you trying to do, anyway? With your casting?" Martin says later. He traces his thumb over Brenden's eyebrows and wipes some sweat away from Brenden's temple.

"I don't know," Brenden admits. "I didn't really think it through."

"Well, no wonder."

"I think I mostly just wanted to stop feeling so bad about fucking up."

Martin huffs. "So do you feel like you accomplished something?"

"Not really?" Brenden says. "But I'm not mad about how it turned out."

Martin smiles then, a small, pleased smile, and Brenden has to pull him in close.


	3. 3

Martin's fifth season in San Jose is rough. The boys can't seem to stop the skid, and Martin appears to have lost all his acuity. He's not the only one struggling, but the media are definitely pointing fingers at him, and after the coaching shakeup, he starts getting benched more and more.

He sleeps more than Brenden's ever seen him do in previous years, getting up in the mornings with only minutes to spare and napping every chance he gets, and still he just keeps looking more and more exhausted every day.

In January Brenden goes over at dinnertime and sees only the flickering light of some candles in the living room. Martin's face lying between them looks terribly drawn and still.

"Martin," Brenden croaks out, his throat tight. He sits down next to Martin on the floor, carefully not touching him.

Laid out around Martin's shoulders, besides the candles, are two rolls of stick tape, a roll of Brenden's brand of sock tape, two bottles of Brenden's favorite flavor of Gatorade, a familiar-looking chewed-up mouthgard, and a puck and a Sharks territory sign with Brenden's autograph on them.

Brenden waits till Martin's eyes open and he sits up. 

"Joner," Brenden says, "what have you been doing?"

Martin looks down, not meeting Brenden's eyes. 

"Martin."

"I tried," Martin says, low. "I've been trying—I thought if it wasn't for myself, if it wasn't selfish, then maybe—but I'm just not strong enough to hold it here."

"What?" Brenden asks, although he's pretty sure he already knows.

"Your contract."

Brenden picks up Martin's hand, shocked at how cold Martin's fingers are. "Babe, you have to stop," he says. "It's not worth it."

"Then you'll get traded," Martin says flatly.

Brenden swallows. "So I'll get traded. That's not worse than this."

Martin looks at him for a long minute. Then Martin turns his hand under Brenden's and squeezes Brenden's fingers.

"Ok," Martin says. He stands up and starts gathering up the things from the floor. 

Brenden picks up the untouched Gatorade bottles and carries them back to the kitchen. He'd come over to suggest ordering food, but now he just pulls some leftovers out of Martin's fridge to reheat. They eat without saying much more.

When they go to bed, Brenden lies down half on top of Martin, one arm slung over Martin's waist, and feels Martin's hand settle over his shoulder blade.

Martin's energy picks up again, enough that Bougie gives him some starts again. In Minnesota he stands taller than Brenden's seen him all season and comes away with the shutout. When Brenden goes to bump helmets he holds Martin's face between his gloves just a little longer than he should, breathing in this moment when things went right.

He doesn't get to see Martin's next shutout live. He watches the highlights afterwards though, back in his hotel room at the end of the night after a rowdy team dinner.

 _lookin good babe,_ he texts Martin. 

Martin sends back an eyeroll, and a bright red heart.


End file.
